


Nazi Punks Fuck Off

by ddeadkennedys



Series: the revolution is my boyfriend [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Punk, Bar Room Brawl, Blood and Injury, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, Hate Crimes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nazis, No Sex, Prequel, Violence, Whump, but it's not really a hate crime it's just a, it's not graphic but i do describe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:21:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25396828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddeadkennedys/pseuds/ddeadkennedys
Summary: R is standing there with an unlit cigarette in his hand like he was on his way out, between two guys who seem benign, but definitely aren't. maybe grantaire doesn't notice the iron crosses and the red laced jackboots, but enjolras has been around the block enough to times to know exactly what he's looking at."pffft, fuck off, man," grantaire says, as enjolras edges within earshot. "don't come talk to me with that bullshit. that's not even what natural selection means, and besides, just because i'm white passing doesn't mean i'm white. no, i don't believe that shit." enjolras sort of appreciates the effort, but he also knows that it's pointless. there's no debating with guys like this.-title taken from Nazi Punks Fuck Off by Dead Kennedys
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: the revolution is my boyfriend [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738942
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	Nazi Punks Fuck Off

**Author's Note:**

> howdy friends! 
> 
> this is the second installment of The Revolution is My Boyfriend, an ongoing series, and takes place before the first part, Submission (Going Down, Down). This is a prequel to that part, so you can read this first, but it contains a bunch of callbacks and what not, so be sure to check it out for foreshadowing and nasty smut. 
> 
> enjoy!

enjolras, mostly, works. for all of his passion for justice and revolution, the thing he does the most is work. he has three jobs, in fact. 

he's the assistant manager of a bodega, first and foremost, slinging cigarettes and scratchy lotto tickets and drinking free pineapple sodas. after getting out at around four in the afternoon, he walks three blocks and goes to his other job, where he keeps people calm with all of his charm while he pushes needles through their lips and noses, encourages teenage girls to do exactly what they want and talks to them about the bands on their t-shirts without questioning their knowledge while he pierces their belly buttons with practiced precision. 

by night he can usually be found at the creepy crawler. sometimes he's got a beer in his hand and a smile on his face, laughing loudly and making friends, making everyone he meets believe in him. occasionally, though, he's making money by kicking out the skinhead assholes who come trying ruin everyone's fun and assert their dominance. 

tonight, he's not working. he's drinking a local microbrew ipa, and he's sitting at the bar chatting quietly with combeferre while tonight's band sets up behind them. 

"i mean, i know going vegan is what everyone is preaching, and i am too, but i just don't think it's the answer to all of our problems," he's saying, while he works on the edge of the label on the bottle with his thumbnail. "i think the green revolution comes with locality and with supporting small businesses. obviously, a small farm run by a family upstate has way less of an impact on the environment than huge industrialized business, y'know? if society can make the transition to producing and providing food for our own communities, rather than supporting a detrimental industry, that's a revolution in and of itself."

combeferre nods, considers this while he takes a sip of beer. he's about to reply, or so enjolras thinks, when instead he looks over enjolras' shoulder and says, "oh, fuck."

enjolras turns his head, and curses, because there is R standing in the back corner by the bathroom, and he's about to be in a bad way. 

(grantaire is annoying. he's uninspired. he just doesn't care, not even about the things that affect him directly. when his rent goes up, he doesn't grow angry with his landlord, with the system. instead he grumbles and complains and then turns and grovels, lets the waves of the system toss him about, lets the gears grind him down. enjolras can't stand people like that, can't stand people who hate the way things are but won't do anything about it, but don't believe that they can. no matter how many times enjolras tries to convince him, he simply decides that humanity is barreling toward some capitalistic apocalypse, and that there is nothing he can do.)

despite all of this, R is short and cute and curly headed, and he wears a pin with the bisexual flag on the lapel of his stupid denim jacket, and enjolras likes him too much for his own good, and he's about to get the shit beaten out of him. enjolras slides off of his stool, claps combeferre on the shoulder, and he makes his way over slowly. 

R is standing there with an unlit cigarette in his hand like he was on his way out, between two guys who seem benign, but definitely aren't. maybe grantaire doesn't notice the iron crosses and the red laced jackboots, but enjolras has been around the block enough to times to know exactly what he's looking at. 

"pffft, fuck off, man," grantaire says, as enjolras edges within earshot. "don't come talk to me with that bullshit. that's not even what natural selection means, and besides, just because i'm white passing doesn't mean i'm white. no, i don't believe that shit." enjolras sort of appreciates the effort, but he also knows that it's pointless. there's no debating with guys like this. he doesn't insert himself just yet, though, bides his time and hopes to god that it isn't a mistake to wait. 

it turns out to be a mistake. 

"what the fuck are you, then?" 

"i'm puerto rican, man, now will you step back? I'm trying to go smoke." 

the guy, unfortunately, does step back, and he calls grantaire a racial slur that enjolras doesn't want to think much less say, and then he knocks him in the jaw so hard that grantaire must fly through six dimensions. 

(enjolras has seen a lot of this type of thing in his day, has been through a lot of this kind of thing in his day. usually, these fucking nazi guys are cowards who won't hit first, especially not when they're in groups of one or two. unfortunately, grantaire has gotten himself into something very bad, and there is a peculiar pang in enjolras' chest that he doesn't want to think about. grantaire is annoying, bothersome, wasting his potential, and enjolras will shit talk him right to his face, but he deserves this as much as anyone else does, which is to say not at all. there's something lurking behind that, though, some urge that enjolras has to kiss the bruise that will blossom on his jaw and wrap him up tight, keep him forever in one moment of safety and comfort.) 

anyway, enjolras steps in, his stomach twisting with disgust and his face hot with anger. 

"hey!" he shouts, half blind with divine and righteous rage. "get the fuck away from him." 

"your boyfriend coming to protect you?" one asshole says with a sneer, digging his boot brutally into grantaire's ribcage, while the other rolls up the sleeves of his jacket like the stupid little goober that he is. 

grantaire is gasping for breath, and enjolras doesn't reply, because he's busy clenching his first and knocking him out. enjolras can't fight, not really, not well, but he's strong and tall enough to be intimidating, and his knuckles have scarred and hardened from the amount of time he's spent doing shit like this. 

"didn't i kick you out of here last week? you aren't fucking welcome here, you piece of shit," and his voice is grinding out of his throat from between clenched teeth, and there is a violent spurt of blood that streams from a nose broken beneath his fist. in the meantime, grantaire has used the jiu jitsu he learned in eighth grade to get the other guy off of his feet for long enough to drag himself away, having used one clever foot to kick him directly in the knee. enjolras feels pride warm his chest. 

it is at this moment that bahorel, who is the bouncer here when he is not, finally steps in. bahorel is better at his job than enjolras is when he's doing it, but he's slower to react, mainly because he's a fucking social butterfly. 

finally safe, R is still lying on the floor, and he feels like an idiot, and he is much less concerned about the hate crime he's just experienced or the fact that he's finding it hard to breathe than he is about enjolras saving him, about the tears on his cheeks. 

now, he's crying in front of enjolras (who he is helpless for, who he admires and scorns, who he believes in like the friendly god he'd been spit on by nuns for wanting to believe in, who seems in this moment to be more like an avenging angel). he's crying in front of enjolras on the floor, and he's bleeding from between his teeth, and he feels like an idiot. 

"thanks," he says, and there is shame burning hot on his skin, and he sits up with his palms on the dirty floor. 

"don't worry about it, kid," enjolras says, and he wipes his hands on his jeans and kneels down, takes grantaire's face in his hands to wipe away the tears on his cheeks and the blood on his chin. "you did good. let me take you home." 

"okay." 

\- 

grantaire isn't really paying attention to anything, while they walk, partly because he's in pain but mostly because enjolras' arm is looped around his shoulders. they walk four silent blocks in the wrong direction before he realizes. 

"we're going the wrong way."

enjolras lets out a little laugh, and he squeezes grantaire's shoulder. 

"we're going to my place, that alright with you?" 

grantaire doesn't say anything for a long time, just leans heavy into the firmness of enjolras' body. enjolras wouldn't steer him wrong, probably. their petty fights and rolling eyes don't matter, right now, not when he's bleeding down the street beneath his arm. 

"i'm sorry," enjolras hears him say, his voice is smaller than he's ever heard it, and he swallows hard. enjolras doesn't really know what he's sorry for, but grantaire figures there are more than enough reasons for him to be sorry. he's obnoxious, bothersome, cynical. he's too stupid to recognize danger, he needs to be saved. enjolras dislikes him, and helps him anyway, wastes his time trying to convince him of his own wasted potential. he wants to turn back, to down a few shots of cheap vodka and go home with someone else, someone tall with tattoos and blonde hair that reminds him of enjolras, but isn't, but doesn't care to convince him to do anything except open his legs and bare his throat. 

grantaire won't look up, no matter how hard enjolras stares down at him. 

"shut up," enjolras tells him, and his voice is tender. he doesn't want to hear his apologies tonight, or ever again. as far as he's concerned this moment is perfect. Grantaire is in pain and upset, but he's close and safe and trusting, and it's perfect. 

it's selfish, really, and enjolras knows that. he knows that this urge inside of him is an ugly one, but he wants to keep grantaire forever. he wants to hold him close like this, to hush away the unmistakable sadness and shame that tinge even his most confident arguments. what is the point of changing the world, he asks, when we the people in it are all so ugly? enjolras knows the answer, knows how to argue with him, knows how to shoot him down and shut him up, but he also knows better. after months of this stupid rivalry, he knows that grantaire's arguments aren't political. he lacks faith in people, but mostly in himself. 

they don't speak again until enjolras unlocks the door to his apartment. he's unaffected by the five flights of stairs, but grantaire is huffing and puffing, one hand wrapped around himself to cradle the insistent throbbing at his side. 

"take it easy, yeah? sit down, breathe slow. i'll fix it," enjolras tells grantaire, and he listens. 

grantaire goes easy, steered and around and sat down on the couch, stripped of his jacket and his shirt and his boots. he is left behind but only momentarily, only long enough for enjolras to find the necessary supplies. enjolras makes R feel like a child with his big hands that touch him so gently, caring but clinical like a school nurse. tears brushed away, blood wiped, bruises iced. 

enjolras is easy to listen to, especially right now that grantaire is helpless and trying to hide the fact that he's still crying, and enjolras is quiet and nonjudgemental, quieting his sniffles. 

grantaire is even trying to breathe slow for him thought the tears, and enjolras notices and it makes his chest ache. every bone in his body wants to wrap himself around him and kiss his forehead, soothe his bruises and squeeze him close. he doesn't, he won't, sure he'd be unwelcome, but that is far from the extent of his fantasies. 

he has grantaire sitting on his couch, shirtless and small, crying so pretty, a little bruised, a little bloody, and enjolras wants to do something terrible. it's bad, and it's what makes enjolras the bad guy no matter how hard he tries to help people, to tell them exactly what they need to hear. he knows he's a bad guy, because all he wants to do is press mean into the bruise on grantaire's side with his fingertips, slot them between his tender ribs and make him squeal. he'd look pretty, squealing. enjolras has pondered this often. 

instead he rubs his pain away, because he knows that's what he needs– no matter how sick and stupid and fuzzy his half-drunken brain is, no matter how many pretty pictures of him flash behind his eyes, no matter how many terrible things he is capable of doing, grantaire needs someone to sit here with him and wipe away his tears, to wind an arm around him and hold him. 

grantaire needs enjolras. enjolras is filled with glee and heat and despair. 

-

the first thing enjolras is aware of is his phone ringing in his pocket. he lets it ring, eyes squeezing shut to combat the sharp light and arms groping out for his blanket. it's cold. 

he doesn't find a blanket. he finds the space between couch cushions, and the curve of its back, and finally he opens his eyes to the world. he's still dressed in his clothes from last night, and he's alone. this realization hits him like a truck and knocks him sideways, and he presses his face to the couch cushion beside him. it's still warm, and it's so pleasant, and enjolras decides to deal with his feelings later and go back to sleep. 

his phone rings again, and he groans.

"you should probably answer that," a voice calls, and enjolras sits up immediately, startled. it's grantaire's voice, and the man himself follows close behind it, the bathroom door shutting audibly behind him. "that's the third time it rang, whoever it is might need you."

"are you okay?" 

"yeah, of course i am. get your phone."

of course he is, enjolras thinks, huffy, while he squirms around to pull his phone out of his pocket. he knows, immediately, why it's ringing. it's ringing because it's already eight thirty, and he should've been at the shop half an hour ago to take over for the guy who works the overnights. 

"fuck," he says, even toned, and picks up to apologize and assure that he'll be there in ten minutes. then, to grantaire: "i gotta go, make yourself some coffee, lock up with the key on the hook and leave it under the mat when you leave." 

grantaire is alone in enjolras' apartment, a second later, mouth open to form the beginning of an affirmative. he's left with nothing but a breeze, the echo of the door closing, and a burning heat on his left cheek and his right hip– enjolras had swooped down to kiss him in passing, pulled him close for half a moment before disappearing altogether. 

"okay," he said into the empty air. "i'll see you when i see you."

a month or so later, the whiskey burns especially hot, and his eyes scan the crowd eagerly for enjolras, and his heart pounds in time with the insane drums slamming through the bar.

eponine and her goddamn riotgrrl bullshit, honestly.


End file.
